


You're in a car with a beautiful boy

by ttired



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, and feeling like I was productive insofar as fic writing is concerned, providing a middle ground between pretending i never wrote them, this is essentially just functionally my desk drawer, where i can hide my tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-05-13 00:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ttired/pseuds/ttired
Summary: and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you--Tumblr prompt shoebox, word count per is roughly 500 words w/ max of 1k, content warnings at the end of each chapter if they're necessary.1. Daniel Abt/Lucas di Grassi -- "Things you said when I was crying" (T)2. Sebastian Vettel/Mark Webber -- "Things you said when you thought I was sleeping" (T)3. Jean-Éric Vergne/André Lotterer -- "Things you said with no space in between us" (T)4. Jean-Éric Vergne/André Lotterer -- Season 4 FE Gala wistfulness, thanks to André's instagram (T)5. Jean-Éric Vergne/André Lotterer -- Season 4 FE Gala porn in a bathroom stall (E)





	1. hammered doesn’t really rhyme with postdammered but who’s asking (daniel/lucas)

**Author's Note:**

> Title of collection from a line of That Poem We Don't Speak Of by Richard goddamn Siken.

Funny thing, being spectacularly wasted. Lucas finds the old adage about drinking being a form of suicide where you’re allowed to return the next day – well, not untrue. Especially once you move past the part of being not so sober that’s meant to actually be relaxing.

Daniel, for his part, is on his knees by one of the performatively economical solar-powered trash bins that occupies the area surrounding the Sony Center and fiddling with the handle in a way that makes Lucas believe he might be aiming to throw up soon, and there were more dignified ways of doing that back at the club they just exited – even for a twenty-five year old vlogger with not enough space in his body for both the alcohol he’s consumed and the vindication of a home-race win – but. Lucas, stumbling slightly trying to chase the awkward movement of his teammate, he might not be  _entirely_ sober himself and besides, unlike, say, parts of Consolação or even Paris, Potsdammer Platz is almost sterile in its lack of foot traffic at three am. There’s nobody here for either of them to be embarrassed by, not counting the  _churrasco_  truck man or  _döner_  kebab truck man, whatever the hell flavor of meat on a stick they’re selling, who has surely seen worse. Their friends have already had enough time to adjust to Daniel’s general affinity for disaster and Lucas’ weird post-race tolerance for both him and his bad decisions.

Lucas slumps down on the ground next to Daniel whilst one of Daniel’s crew go to get food (the smartest idea anyone’s had since the third round of buttery nipples), and Lucas, a little looser than he ought to be rolls his head and shoulder onto Daniel’s collarbone partly to stop him from fucking around with the rubbish bin, partly to check in on him – and Daniel’s crying. OK. Lucas can – alcohol peels people like onions, maybe they have finally gotten down to the shitty self-doubt portion of the evening that fueled the aforementioned vindication.

“Hey, hey,” Lucas sighs, faffing with Daniel’s hair a bit. “Stick with the good. It belongs to you, this is a victory, no?”

Daniel shifts into his touch for a minute, not saying anything but using his coat sleeve to swipe at his eyes a bit. The left one of which is… red? And smudged, like he’s wearing kohl eyeliner, which –

“I ashed out,” Daniel finally admits, giggling, even as he’s still crying a bit. “I tripped trying to light the cigarette I nicked off Tomas, and a bit of the cherry flew –” he gestures at the left side of his face. “Into my eye, but hey, keep petting me and talking about winning, that was nice.”

Lucas can’t be bothered to stop honestly, despite the sudden wave of massive annoyance that envelops him, and that’s about the crux of the whole Daniel problem isn’t it?

“I want an  _ayran_ , tell him to get me one of the yogurt drinks,” Lucas mumbles, not even really grumbling as Daniel positions himself half on his lap even as he continues to play with Daniel’s hair whilst they’re still sitting on the sidewalk, next to a fucking garbage bin –  _umweltfreundlich_  or otherwise. As far as indiscretions go, they’re still in wholesome territory; and like the win feeling more permanent than joyful, somehow it fits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Alcohol use
> 
> [My tumblr](bozplz.tumblr.com)


	2. the year of the snake and the death of a dog (seb/mark)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2013 was indeed the Year of the Snake ap the Chinese calendar system, and Mark announced his retirement three days (I believe?) before Silverstone that year.

Mark wakes up the second the sheet pulls across his legs the wrong way and the room stays oppressively silent – he’s used to dogs in bed, sure, but they’re never this quiet about it. He’s also in a hotel room, mind you, but it takes him a second to remember that, especially since the air wafting in through the open window smells like England – Silverstone. He’s at a bloody GP. There are several people who might find it entertaining to visit him in the middle of the night during a race weekend, but fewer who’d try to be sneaky about it.

Mark evens out his breathing, shifts slightly, and stills. Lets out a snuffling snore for effect. By his feet, a weight settles. Mark breathes, his visitor sits, and nothing much else happens for an uncomfortably long while. He’s debating giving up the ruse of sleep just so that he can actually get back to bed for real, when finally into the darkness and  _uncomfortably_ close to his ear, God –

“You can’t leave,” says Sebastian, and Mark feels a thrill of slight surprise chase goosebumps down his neck – grits his teeth hoping Sebastian doesn’t notice. “That’s not how this is supposed to go.”

Is – is Sebastian drunk? His words are slurring slightly, but Mark supposes that could just be from exhaustion; either way, it’d be very unlike the German who for all his adaptable precociousness hoards control like almost no other driver Mark’s ever met.

“What am I supposed to do if you’re not behind me, I–” and there’s a vague warmth bleeding through the sheets wrapped around Mark’s hips, like a hand hovering but not quite touching down to rest. “Nobody else cares about losing like you do, all the lines will go fuzzy.”

Mark wants to frown, both at the weird and generally kind of fucked sentiment and the fact that the kid’s words make no kind of clear sense to him, but whatever is bothering Seb, it’ll probably be faster to just let him talk it out. Showing signs of life won’t do much other than drag this mess out.

“You make each race so clear,” and Seb does touch him now, but lightly, reverently.

Mark’s breath catches.

Seb’s weight shifts off the bed, and Mark opens his eyes. He’s not looking at the door, the fabric of his pillow crowding his face, but there’s a soft click from across the room a few seconds later despite Sebastian’s footfalls being entirely silent across the shoddy carpeting. Mark eventually remembers to breathe out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Entrance into a hotel room without occupant's consent or permission, platonic touching without consent. Substance abuse mention.
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr](https://bozplz.tumblr.com)


	3. they don't make sunglasses dark enough to block out your smile (jev/andre)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Monaco instagrams from everyone were a time and a half. This has mentions of past Dan/Jev, FYI so if that's a problem, swerve this puppy.

Jean-Éric is on a yacht, moored alongside many other yachts in Port Hercule, with a glass of more-than-drinkable viognier in his hand, and unlike every other time in his recent past that he’s found himself in this exact situation, he honestly couldn’t give two fucks who’s going to win the grand prix he’s purportedly here to see in two days’ time.

It’s marvelous, and Jean-Éric finds himself grinning at the simple luxury of not caring, opting not to worry if it earns him a few askance glances from the smartly dressed waiters carrying around plates of hors d’oeurves. This is his life now: pleasantly buzzed, top of his racing series, not sad about not having to put on a monkey costume and dance for the sanctimonious pageant that is F1 as some kind of lost and forgotten last-resort option. And in like-minded company, even if he’s not entirely sure where the hell André’s gotten off to at the moment. The nearly deserted deck Jean-Éric’s found himself on port-side abaft of the entrance to the enclosed area that’s become a bit of a disco is all but inviting this moment of pleasant self-reckoning.

That is, until Jean-Éric spots Daniel staring at him -- or at least in his general direction -- from two boats over.

Jean-Éric almost chokes on the sip of wine he's in the middle of finishing, and in his haste, drinks half the glass -- which might be for the better because he legitimately hadn't thought this was even a possibility today, he'd been _so careful_ with scheduling his time on the Energy Station yacht earlier, and now.

Dan doesn't seem awkwardly frozen, nor does he have any kind of change in apparent outward behavior (plus he's got on sunglasses) so it's possible he's not even looking at Jean-Éric at all. The other possibility -- that he simply doesn't warrant any sort of a reaction -- is suddenly, chest-crushingly too awful to even contemplate, and it's been _four years_ how is this still what his body does to him when faced down with someone he used to fuck? And OK yes, have a full-on cornucopia of feelings for, but thinking about _that_ most certainly isn't going to help right now.

"How is it I can't leave you alone for five minutes without you getting into some sort of trouble, hmm?" comes a voice from behind him, a familiar voice even -- André.

Oh thank god. "Oh thank God," Jean-Éric manages to voice whilst trying to put some sort of a pleasant smile back onto his face. "I hope you brought drinks."

André smoothly exchanges Jean-Éric's mostly empty wine-glass with a full one, still chilled enough to have condensation rolling down its side. Jean-Éric mumbles a grateful if not heartfelt santé as the other man carts off his empty.

"I'll do you one better," he says, planting himself comfortably on the railing and directly in front of Jean-Éric's view of Dan. "I brought snacks."

And he has, has André -- he proffers canapes and little olive things, and two lines of stolen sashimi that look like octopus and some kind of white fish, maybe branzino? all with a look like a cat that's got the canary, and Jean-Éric is suddenly so thankful that this idiot Belgian enigma is in his life, he actually forgets that he was in the middle of a crisis.

"You remembered octopus is my favorite," Jean-Éric practically beams at him.

"I might have," André shrugs, failing to be non-chalant entirely. "Although to be honest, the rest of the sushi looked pretty tired, so I mostly just snatched what I thought we wouldn't regret eating later."

Jean-Éric takes a piece of the octopus off André's plate, licking wasabi off his fingers after he pops the slice of seafood into his mouth. André watches him in a way Jean-Éric feels he should maybe be more self-conscious about, but opts not to by way of the three glasses of wine sloshing around in his otherwise empty stomach.

"You know, if you want to stare off into the distance and brood, the view's much better from the front of the boat --" André says, pausing slightly, dipping his shoulder like he might turn around but then seems to think the better of it. "There's a fat, bald, old dude that's burnt lobster red trying to use one of those water jetpacks, and it's pretty hilarious actually; c'mon let me show you."

André gets up and walks towards him, Jean-Éric manages to stop himself from craning around his slowly approaching figure and look to see if he can still see Dan on the deck behind him, but it’s not exactly easy.

“You go on ahead,” Jean-Éric smiles, but it feels weak. “I’ll be right there.”

André keeps walking forwards until he’s crowding Jean-Éric a little, puts his own champagne glass and their shared plate down unceremoniously on a cocktail vaguely to Jean-Éric’s left, and puts both hands on either side of Jean-Éric’s thighs, bracketing him in. André smells like sweat, and sunscreen, and the cremant he’s been drinking -- a little like smoke, but from a grill, not cigarettes. He leans forwards so slowly, Jean-Éric’s not sure he’ll stop before their foreheads touch -- but he does, maintaining a kind of shrewd eye-contact that’s almost enough to make Jean-Éric blush.

“I promise you,” André says, sighing good-naturedly. “There’s nothing behind me worth looking at.”

“Am I so obvious?” Jean-Éric asks helplessly.

“Sometimes,” André allows. “But it’s actually quite cute.”

“Fuck off,” Jean-Éric snorts, shoving at André a little who steps back grinning.

“Come on, then,” André says, collecting their things and reaching out his hand.

Jean-Éric doesn’t hesitate to take it, and doesn’t look back over the railing once as they walk along the deck together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: alcohol use


	4. anything, everything (jev/andre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is part one of two of the two pieces of something else I was writing that, as a whole, was intolerable to me, but in small chunks, worthwhile I guess; this was posted on my tumblr at one point, part two is the porn and was not.
> 
> both are set at the FIA FE Gala in NYC at the end of Season 4
> 
> \--
> 
> André might not be entirely OK, but he'll pull through.

There’s a sort of quiet now, in the back of the Uber, as Jean-Éric sits there by himself.

It’s not entirely silent, the wheels making a repetitive thumping noise as the car travels at speed over where the hanger cable brackets are grafted into the girder of the Brooklyn Bridge, and also there’s soft jazz playing from the speakers tuned into the radio -- André’s choice. But Jev finds himself introspective in a way that he’d rather not be, needing horseplay and smiles and to not be left alone, not tonight when he’s supposed to be celebrating, all the joy from yesterday escaping him like the swell of the tide rolling back out to sea.

It had started, this quiet, when he’d climbed out of the twenty-five car at the track a few hours ago, almost running over the P1 sign carless and ecstatic from the win, hoping and _hoping_ and -- controlling himself viciously once he realised that André’s P9 wasn’t enough, that it wasn’t to be. He feels like he’s gotten better at reframing losses this year, so it wasn’t as hard as he feels like it should’ve been to be a little less anxious and little more selfish and put on a good podium show; it wasn’t honestly even half-hearted, the momentum of his happiness genuine, but now, in the back of hired car, after André casually pushed him into the back seat as they’d got in at the hotel before waving his questioning looks off and saying --

“No, I want to ride up front, my stomach is a little off -- won’t make me as nauseous,” tone brooking zero room for argument --

\-- Jev’s high is faltering.

Maybe it’s better that it’s happening now when he still has a whole evening and a day to recuperate from the insanity of this finale; he’s been dreading the flight to Paris and the potential _crise existentielle_ on the long haul without André or Blake or anyone the fuck else to pull him back out of his head. 

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of André snickering from up front, and Jev looks over slightly to catch André filming him with his phone. He’s unperturbed, knowing eighty percent of his expression is covered by the shade of the sunset casting shadows into the backseat combined with the anonymity of his absurdly expensive sunglasses. André’s wearing his matching pair, and a part of Jean-Éric knows that as much as he’s playing cute for Insta right now, this is a deflection from whatever’s going on inside the German’s head, barely genuine and mostly pretense.

Jean-Éric waits until André’s dropped his arm back down and is clearly in the process of uploading the video to his story before asking: “How’s your stomach?”

André makes eye-contact with him, actually pushing his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and looking at him through the rear-view mirror, staring for half a second instead of immediately responding. “It’s feeling a bit better. You worried about me?”

“A little bit, maybe,” Jean-Éric grins, aiming for disarming.

“Don’t be,” André says, sliding his sunglasses back into place. “I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself you know.”

Jean-Éric snorts, and replies: “I know,” because he does.

André turns his camera back around to face the view out of the front windscreen, all silhouettes and boxy bridge frames against the near violet skyline and golden sun -- and it’s pretty, Jev can see what André’s looking to capture, but he’s not willing to let their not-discussion go, not quite yet, so Jean-Éric scoots himself up to the edge of the seat, as far as his seatbelt will allow for, and tangles his fingers with André’s in his unoccupied hand. André jerks slightly, an involuntary squeeze, and then settles into the hold Jev’s not really willing to give-up without a fuss.

Jean-Éric’s half expecting André to pull away once he’s done filming, but he doesn’t, and they ride the rest of the way to Spring Studios hand-in-hand despite the gap in seats.


	5. my mistakes were made for you (jev/andre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was part of a gala bathroom blow-job scene, and it's the only readable part of it; this is just porn people. I suppose the context is that Andre was being rather rude and rather loud and Jev doesn't particularly want to get caught blowing him in a bathroom in Soho. CW at the end.

Jean-Éric pinches the vulnerable skin of where the thigh meets his groin, pulling off and breathing wetly for a few seconds, until André stops moving and talking entirely, hissing lightly. He replaces his fingers with his mouth, wrapping his palm lazily back around Andre’s erection, and bites down gently. Jev doesn’t let up though, keeps adding enough consistent pressure that with added suction, from the way André starts to squirm against the door, he knows it’ll be the kind of hickey that’ll be a bitch to touch for at least a few days after. Pulling back to visually inspect his work, Jev doesn’t look up but says with as much command as he can muster despite being hoarser than he’d like, “Stop talking, or I’ll gag you.”

He can feel the way André’s dick twitches in his hand, and at that -- Jean-Éric does meet André’s gaze, incredulity written across his face, he’s sure.

“Seriously?” he asks André.

André looks sheepish, but it’s like a flash going off -- startling and gone almost immediately, a sort of haughty defensiveness in its place with alarming speed. Jev notices Andre can’t control everything about his reaction, though, marveling at how the tips of his teammate’s ears are turning slightly pink. Jean-Éric wouldn’t have ever thought him capable of being bashful, not when it came to sex, but here they are, in a toilet stall in downtown Manhattan, discovering new things about each other still.

“What, I’m not allowed to have kinks?” André says, finally. “It’s not as if I’m admitting to liking group sex with circus clowns, stop looking at me like that.”

Jean-Éric feels the speculation he’s indulging in start to creep on to his face, even as he rocks back slightly to fish around behind Andre for the lid to the toilet.

“Seriously, what?” André asks again, irritation beginning to color his voice.

Jean-Éric manages to get the lid set down, and then gestures to it even as he climbs back to his feet slowly, his knees giving slight protest as he straightens his legs out carefully.

“Sit down,” he says to André, who eyes him warily and doesn’t really move.

“Sit down, André,” Jean-Éric tries again, channeling as much exasperation into his voice as possible, because André will react to that -- because it’s not mockery or belittlement, and Jev needs to wipe the caginess from his teammate’s face.

André hesitates, clearly debating the merits of following through with Jev’s instructions, but eventually complies -- Jean-Éric’s pleased to note André’s still hard, so he hasn’t lost all his footing for his next move before he even gets the suggestion of it out of his mouth.

He keeps his gaze trained on André as he goes to untie the length of his silk bow-tie. Lourenço, the stylist from Boss, had given him the choice between a prefab tied set of silk bow-ties -- not clip-ons, but not the real things either -- and old school silk brocade strips he’d have to knot himself, and in some things, Jean-Éric will always be deeply old school when given a choice. He’s thankful for it now. He looks down at the midnight blue fabric draped over his wrist and then bunches it in the palm of his hand before looking back up at André. André’s eyes are dark, mouth parted slightly, and he's unable to stop himself from darting occasional glances at Jean-Éric’s now-bare neck and the silk crushed in his hand.

He takes the few steps necessary to place himself between André’s spread legs. Jev ponders the novelty of looking down at André, who’s in the unusual position of a height disadvantage seated.

“I’m going to put this in your mouth now,” Jean-Éric says slowly, nodding at the tie in his hand. He’s skipping jokes and familiar teasing now with André partially because he wants to be exceedingly clear, and partially because he wants to make sure for all André’s posturing, he’s comfortable with this. “And you’re going to be quiet. If you stay quiet until I make you come, I’ll wear this tie back out there -- spit stains and all.”

“Fuck,” André says tersely, and it’s edged with the start of a desperation Jean-Éric thinks he could learn to grow fond of.

“Out there -- for the rest of the night,” Jean-Eric continues, gesturing vaguely behind him, and it’s not that he thinks Andre doesn’t understand his meaning, but this is the closest he’s seen Andre to squirming since they’ve known each other and god help him because it makes him want to _push_. “For everyone to see and wonder about, hmm? What do you think?”

Andre exhales sharply, shakes his head like he’s surfacing water and coming up for air. He still doesn’t say anything, although his gaze is still fixed on the contents of Jean-Eric’s right hand, and Jev thinks _well now or never_ with the same sort of hysterical impulse that feeds most of his bad decisions in life.

“Open,” Jev says, brushing over André’s bottom lip with his thumb, and André does.

He pushes the bunched silk back and down against the flat of André’s tongue, waiting out the man’s need to swallow triggered by the placement of the makeshift gag in his mouth and Jean-Éric’s fingers.

“Next time you want this,” Jean-Éric says, kissing one side of André’s face and then the other. “You ask me nicely, understand?”

André’s eyes are shut, but he nods, the movement jerky and slightly uncoordinated. Jean-Éric gets back down on his knees. The first touch of his mouth back on André’s cock has the German throwing his head back on a high-pitched exhalation of breath; his head hits the tile, and he winces, but his eyes snap open and he bites down on the tie in his mouth, and pushes his shoulders back into the wall to brace himself, his face almost a mask of concentration. André’s hands are curled on his own thighs, twitching slightly as Jev opts not to tease and sets an aggressive rhythm with lips, fingers, and tongue.

“You can touch me, if you want,” Jean-Éric clarifies after a tense few seconds, stopping to suck at André’s balls.

He says something partially because the way André’s nails are digging into his own skin looks painful, partially because he genuinely wants André’s hands on him missing the tactile connection, and no sooner does Jean-Éric suggest it, André’s fingers are off his lap and all over Jev’s face. He’s mapping Jean-Éric’s lips, his mouth, carding one hand into his hair to scratch at his scalp -- all the tension in his body, the need to come, translating into whatever he can communicate without resorting to words. Jean-Éric feels dizzied by the magnitude of André’s reaction, should maybe be annoyed by the way André’s pushing in two fingers along side his cock just to sort of pet at his tongue, but it’s hardly annoying when it’s so clearly adoring Jean-Éric feels almost helpless with it.

André’s orgasm is abrupt, Jean-Éric barely able to distinguish between André petting him and André trying to warn him off.

He intends to just swallow and be done with it -- less mess and they’re in public after all -- but it starts at and odd point and has him coughing and pulling off, catching the end of it on neck and beard, which -- Jean-Éric sighs, at least it’s not on his jacket. His hair is in complete disarray and he’s sure his mouth is swollen from obvious use, his lips edging towards pins and needles and feeling hot to his inquesting touch. He sits back and leans against the door of the stall as he catches his breath, looking at his teammate who’s leaning back against the wall, spent cock still out on display.

André looks wrung out, but edgeless -- not crackling with the weird, prickly energy he can carry with him sometimes and was carrying with him before. He coughs, lightly, before grimacing and fishing Jean-Éric’s tie back out of his mouth and sitting up. He takes one look at Jev, and then cracks a grin, leaning forwards to use the spit-saturated silk to wipe the come off Jean-Éric’s chin and collar, and --

“Boy, I’d hate to be in your shoes -- this tie is rank,” André says, almost giggling with a diabolical sort of amusement, a completely disingenuous sort of pity threading through his voice as he apologetically cleans his spunk off Jev’s face.

Jev’s almost ducking him, torn between batting his hands away and just giving up on the state of his clothing. “I was trying to get you to come in my mouth,” Jean-Éric grousses, wincing at the way his voice croaks. “Less messy.”

“Oh, were you?” André says, lifting his free hand up to his mouth in mock surprise. “Oops. My bad. Here you go.”

And with that, tosses the tie on Jean-Éric’s lap, and starts to tuck himself away. Jean-Éric picks up the offending accessory gingerly with his thumb and forefinger and really regrets whatever stroke of genius he thought he was possessed by in the heat of the moment -- surely a bit of sex-line chat wasn’t worth all this. Apparently done straightening himself out, André paws at Jev’s elbows, hauling him to his feet, and -- before Jean-Éric can really say much about it -- kisses him senseless. It’s the kind of crushing, full-body, teeth-and-tongue embrace he’s come to associate with the other man, and at least whatever wasn’t right in his head before’s been sorted well enough for André to return to relative form.

“You should do that with me again, by the way,” André says pulling back, and giving Jean-Éric a lopsided grin -- Jev had honestly thought that would take more introspection and self-reckoning on the part of the German, to hear him acknowledge his enjoyment of it so plainly and without complication is… interesting. A good sign, Jev wants to think.

“Pretty please,” André adds, after a second, the potential necessity of it suddenly dawning on him almost as obviously as a lightbulb illuminating overhead. “Since you said to ask nicely.”

“I did, didn’t I,” Jean-Éric smiles, a little nervous about whatever he might’ve gotten himself into beyond the mess of affection already strewn between them like silly string.

“You want help tying that?” André says, opening the stall and ushering Jean-Éric back out into the empty bathroom.

It’s a minor miracle nobody walked in on them, but Jean-Éric’s not about to starting thinking too deeply on that subject now -- he feels like that would probably jinx it and boom! next thing either of them know, watch Alejandro come stumbling in arm-in-arm with Alain Prost or Susie Wolff or something. He looks at André, but André’s gaze is fixed on the gap at his neck.

“You just want to make sure I don’t reneg on our agreement,” Jean-Éric needles.

“I actually think you’re good for it,” André says almost too quietly for Jean-Eric to understand, coming up behind him, fingertips playing along the exposed skin where the knot of the bowtie should rest. “Mostly, I just want to be the one to put it back on you.”

The admission makes Jean-Éric acutely aware he hasn’t come yet, probably won’t be coming anytime soon and is still half-hard in his pants -- that is, unless they want to be beyond suspiciously absent from the evening’s proceedings. He thinks back to what got them both in this mess, at the heart of it an acknowledgement of powerlessness, and the exchange of faith that’s brought them back out to the other side. He hands the tie back to André, who meets his gaze unflinchingly.

“Go ahead then,” Jean-Éric says. “I trust you to tie it right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: gags, under-negotiated kink and no safewords, bodily fluids, sex in public places, just general grossness, possessive behavior, some power dynamics at play although not really formalized D/s or anything like that, erm... oh, I guess humiliation? because of the bow-tie bit at the end? again, only sort of, the person who suggest it is suggesting they defacto humiliate themselves a bit to play to their partner's kinks. ANYWAY, there you have it.


End file.
